Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  Amy stared. Then she gave a little chuckle. ‘Ha! So you had to go underground, like me. That’s – that’s funny.’

  ‘The Repsegs were after me,’ said Clara, ‘and–’

  Amy raised a hand. ‘You must be hungry. We haven’t got much food – but you’d better have some …’

  She led Clara down the platform to where some wooden cases stood. The woman guarding them nodded to Amy as she took a tin of pilchards and a bread roll from the cases. ‘Here,’ said Amy. She coughed, and spat over the platform edge. There was a wheezy edge to her breathing. ‘Sit here, and eat. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Clara ate quickly, crunching the bones between her teeth and licking her fingers. Amy, she noticed, was in animated conversation with the Committee, her finger often stabbing in Clara’s direction. She came back; Clara wiped the grease from her chin with her sleeve.

  ‘You can stay tonight,’ said Amy. ‘Tomorrow we’ll get you away.’

  Clara stood. ‘Why are you helping me?’

  Amy’s skin glistened in the firelight. She gave a wry smile. ‘We’re all against the Republic now, Clara. Even you have your uses.’

  Clara shivered, despite the fire. ‘But – after what I did to you ..?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we’ll be moving on. Come and get a drink.’ They joined some women huddling near the fire. ‘Got some drink, Aggie?’ said Amy.

  A spindly woman with fair hair flipped the top off a bottle and held it out. ‘Best there is,’ she said.

  ‘Beer?’ said Clara, looking at the bottle.

  ‘Well, what d’you expect?’ crowed Aggie. ‘None of yer poisoned tap water here, love.’

  ‘Poisoned?’ said Clara. ‘What do you mean?’

  Aggie laughed, grabbed a bottle for herself, and wandered off.

  Briefly, Clara thought again of Bella. Then she realised that Amy was watching her closely. She took a pull of the beer, grimacing at the bitterness on her tongue. But the stuff was drinkable, and she was thirsty. She drank some more. ‘What’s going on here, Amy?’ she asked. ‘Who are these people? They’re the Underground, aren’t they?’

  Amy nodded. ‘That’s us. We’re like a resistance movement. This is where we live, here in the old tunnels. The old Underground railways – our name’s everywhere!’ She allowed herself a half-smile. ‘We’re safe down here,’ she said. ‘The Repsegs will never find us. See how the smoke goes along the tunnel – there’ll be no tell-tale signs up top. So long as we keep moving on, they’ll never track us down.’ She looked at Clara. ‘One day we’ll rise up, and we’ll take over. It’ll be the end of the Republic.’

  Clara stared. This was a different Amy. ‘But, you’ve only been with the Underground a few days.’

  Amy’s jaw clenched. ‘There were plenty of Undergrounders on the rec-gang, so we got talking. Didn’t take me long to see they were right, and the Republic’s wrong. But what about you, Clara – are you with us?’

  Clara thought about the Repsegs above, hunting for her. She thought of the knife that May carried, and what it could be used for. It didn’t look like you should mess with the Underground – if she didn’t play along, she’d be dead. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose I am.’

  Amy nodded. ‘People are starving, see. All the food is channelled to the soldiers fighting with Milland. That war’s been going on for years, but no-one’s ever going to win – more and more people die, that’s all. It’d be all right if it was only Clones, but there’s ordinary folk been press-ganged from their farms.’

  Clara shivered. The part of her that still thought she was a Clone herself wanted to argue with Amy – of course it mattered, if Clones died; and she couldn’t believe that “ordinary folk” were being pressed into the fighting. But all she said was, ‘No!’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Amy. ‘We’re all at war. Every one of us. And we’re not told why.’

  A couple of women had come up to the fire to warm their hands. ‘Yeah,’ said one of them, ‘and that’s another reason there’s no food.’ She sniffed. ‘Working women taken away, and whole farms gone to the weeds.’

  ‘There’s the pirates, too,’ observed the second woman.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the first. ‘Pirates. Not that I blame ’em – those Dutchies, their whole land’s gone under water. They gotta live, same as the rest of us. Point is, they come and take all our fish, don’t they?’

  ‘And then there’s the Barrier.’

  ‘Yeah, the Barrier.’

  The two stood in silence for a moment, then walked away.

  ‘Amy,’ said Clara, ‘do they think the Barrier’s going to fail?’

  ‘Yes, one day soon,’ said Amy. ‘And it’ll never work again.’

  Clara nodded. ‘I’ve heard the same thing.’

  ‘When it fails, underground places like this’ll be flooded. The lower lines get flooded already, after the storm-surges. So when the time comes, we’ll need to get out, get away.’

  ‘Where to?’

  Amy shrugged. ‘We’ll think of something.’

  They were silent for a moment. Clara asked, ‘Where does your food come from?’

  ‘See that pile of steel over there? These tunnels are full of it. The Republic’s happy to pay.’

  ‘The Government buy the metal off you?’

  ‘Well, that’s what it amounts to. They pretend they don’t know. We sell it to a woman over in Ealing, she sells it on to them, no questions asked. Anyhow, everything’s fair when you’re trying to stay alive. You can get anything on the streets, if you know who to ask. And the Government don’t care, so long as it doesn’t cause trouble. We’ve got petrol as well – there’s always rich women who want it for their cars and boats.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘And they taught us that only the government were allowed it, didn’t they? There’s so much – so much going on, that we don’t know about.’

  ‘Well that depends on how blind you want to be, Clara. You always were a true child of the Republic. Not any more though, hey? Your eyes are open now.’ Amy’s gaze flicked over Clara’s face. ‘Now listen,’ she went on. ‘I need to find Mother.’

  An image of the orange-suited corpse, the bloated flesh, the bullet-holes, flashed before Clara’s eyes. But still something kept her from speaking.

  ‘We’ll go looking for her tomorrow,’ said Amy. ‘You and me, and a few others.’

  Clara pictured more hiding, more running from Repsegs. ‘But – I won’t be any help. They’re looking for me. I’ll be a liability.’

  Amy turned to her. ‘Clara, we really need you,’ she said. ‘You’ll be more help than you know. Trust me.’

  The platform was covered with sleeping forms. The fire had died down, and the only light came from a couple of torches. Two women lounged near one of them, playing cards by its light.

  ‘Ere,’ whispered June. ‘Are you crying?’

  Clara pulled the thin blanket tighter around her. A chill wind whispered along the floor of the tunnel and over the platform. ‘I’ve lost everything,’ sniffed Clara. ‘Everything.’

  ‘Well, join the bloody club,’ said June. ‘It’s the same for all of us. We ain’t down here for the good of our health, y’know.’ She rolled over. ‘Try and sleep. There’s nothing else for it.’

  ‘Where’s Amy?’

  ‘Gone up top. On business.’

  She was shaken awake by somebody standing over her with a flaring torch. ‘Come on,’ said Amy. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘Is it morning?’ murmured Clara. Her throat was dry, her limbs stiff.

  ‘Nearly.’ Amy held out a hand. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  They picked their way between the sleeping Undergrounders, Clara unsteady, Amy brisk.

  May and June were waiting under the arches with two other women. ‘Have you got her?’ May said.

  Amy said: ‘Clara’s coming to find out how we work, aren’t you, Clara?’

  They started up the stairs, and Clara could feel May close behind her. ‘W
here are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘To get Mother back,’ said Amy.

  Clara marvelled at how “fat little Amy” could manage these stairs so well. ‘How are you going to do that?’ she panted.

  ‘Don’t worry about the climb,’ said Amy. ‘You’ll get used to it. Everybody does.’

  Two stairs in front, June looked over her shoulder. ‘Except those sewer rats,’ she said.

  ‘Sewer rats?’

  ‘The oldest of the underground lines, see, they run just under street level,’ said June. ‘The women that live up there – they’re too scared to come down deep.’

  They reached a landing, then started up another long-dead escalator. ‘Amy,’ said Clara, ‘there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Hurry up!’ said Amy.

  They passed through a cascade of drips falling from the roof; here the stairs were slimed and even more slippery. ‘Yeah,’ May said. ‘And sewer is right, ’cause them shallow tunnels, they don’t half stink.’

  ‘Mind you,’ June went on, ‘they ain’t as bad as that lot over on in the East End – Centrals, ain’t it – they let men in!’

  ‘Well what’s wrong with that?’ said May. ‘I fancy a bit of man sometimes. You do, too.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said June, now also gasping. ‘They’re a distraction, ain’t they?’

  ‘Gimme a man now and again, that’s what I say.’

  Clara caught up with Amy. ‘You mean there’s lots of you?’

  ‘The old underground network is full of people, all fighting the Republic,’ said Amy.

  ‘When we’re not fighting each other, you mean,’ said June. ‘Those Mets, and the Bakerloo scum – they’ll be the end of us, I tellya. Good job we gave ’em a hiding last week. Now be quiet, we’re near the top.’

  The silent streets were submerged in a thick, wet fog, and Clara could hardly make out the shapes of the buildings opposite. The vapour deadened their very footfalls, and puddles loitered everywhere on the uneven pavements. After walking some distance they turned right at a row of shuttered shops, continuing uphill across a wide crossroads. The fog grew thicker. To either side lay dusty piles of smashed concrete and reclaimed iron. Beyond, Clara could see the roadway extending onto a bridge over the river. The two Undergrounders whom Clara didn’t know, hard-jawed women with little to say, pulled aside and crouched among the rubble. Clara saw them taking guns out of their packs.

  ‘Amy?’ said Clara, reaching for the other’s arm. ‘What’s going on? What are those two doing?’

  Amy shushed her and led her onto the bridge. As they passed an ornamental arch on their left, Clara saw three shapes approaching. They stopped twenty yards off, indistinct in the fog. Two wore grey Repseg uniforms, and the third was dressed in orange overalls. Clara stared. Ms Martin was dead, she’d seen her with her own eyes. Surely this couldn’t be her? Corpses can’t be brought back to life, she thought. Can they?

  Amy halted, and Clara was conscious of May and June standing close.

  One of the Repsegs spoke, and Clara was horrified to recognise Sergeant Shavila’s voice. ‘You have the traitor for us?’

  June was calling something in answer; Clara turned quickly. ‘Amy, what’s going on?’ she pleaded. But then May grabbed both her arms and thrust them up behind her back, forcing her to drop to her knees. At the same time, something hard smacked against Clara’s skull, making her teeth grind. The world swam. Dimly she heard Amy’s voice.

  ‘Did you think I’d forget?’ Amy said. ‘Forget that you ruined my whole life? And, in case you were wondering – I’m not a Natural. Yes, Mother forged my Authentication, because the births office lost the original and wouldn’t issue another. But that’s all. Then you gave the Republic the chance they’d been waiting for, to take over Mother’s factory.’ While Clara struggled to understand, Amy turned to the Repsegs. ‘Mother?’ she cried. ‘Mother, is that you?’

  ‘Show me the traitor!’ called Shavila.

  With the pain still ringing around her head, Clara felt herself being hauled up and dragged forward.

  ‘Mother,’ said Amy again, ‘is that you?’ Then, ‘It’s not her. It’s a trap!’

  Shavila had walked half a dozen paces closer. ‘We’d have brought your mother,’ she said, ‘but she tried to escape.’

  Clara shook her head. It hurt. ‘Amy,’ she mumbled, ‘Amy, you’re handing me over?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Amy kicked Clara in the thigh. To Shavila she called, ‘We’re not delivering the traitor till you bring my mother here.’

  ‘You went out last night,’ said Clara, her jaw heavy, her lips numb. ‘You were setting this up.’

  Amy was still talking to Shavila. ‘If you haven’t got my mother,’ she called, ‘the deal’s off.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Clara.

  Amy turned. ‘What?’ she gasped.

  Clara could barely hold her head up. May and June still gripped her arms, and she lolled like a mouse in a cat’s mouth. ‘She’s dead,’ she repeated. ‘I saw her body, they pulled it from the river.’

  ‘Amy, it’s a trap,’ growled May. ‘Let’s get back.’

  Amy’s eyes were wide. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Ask them,’ said Clara. ‘The sergeant knows.’

  ‘You dog,’ shrieked Amy. ‘You bloody manlover.’ She leapt on Clara, fastening her fingers round her throat. May and June jumped aside, and Amy fell over as Clara, hardly knowing what she was doing, began to fight back. They rolled over the kerb, loosening Amy’s grip. Clara managed a jab at Amy’s ribs, and one hand found her face, shoving her jaw up and away. But her fingers were exposed, and Amy bit hard into Clara’s ring finger, making her cry out as she let go. Amy’s hand was tightening, tightening on her throat, and Clara saw strange colours in the darkness that was taking her. Then came concussions close by, blasts that Clara recognised. Instantly, the murderous grip was released, and as Clara’s vision returned she saw Amy kneeling in a puddle, looking first one way, then the other. Nearby, something gurgled as it hit the ground. Through the fog and gunsmoke there were shouts. Clara lay flat, gasping, wondering if her windpipe was crushed.

  She heard a voice, crying, ‘May! May!’ A few yards away, Amy was crouching by something on the pavement, shaking it. The air was full of gunfire; more Repsegs and more Undergrounders had arrived.

  Clara forced the words out, her throat burning. ‘Amy,’ she croaked, ‘get down. Get down.’

  Amy glared at her. She’d opened her mouth to speak, when a bullet took her and sent her sprawling.

  ‘Amy!’ cried Clara; then she saw her stagger to her feet and run off, stooping and clutching her arm.

  Shots were coming from both sides. Any minute now, one of them would hit Clara. A few feet away, May lay lifeless and still. And a few feet to the other side were the blood-red railings at the edge of the bridge. Better to drown than be shot, thought Clara, and just then there was a lull in the shooting. She rolled to the railings, grabbed them and hauled herself over, her cloak flailing behind. Shots rang out.

  Her back smacked into the chill water, but at once the current flipped her over and thrust her along. Then something hard hit her legs, and her cloak was swept from her: the current was pinning her on one of the bridge piers that jutted out into the dark waters. Gasping, Clara turned herself round and tried to find a handhold in the worn concrete. The current, strengthening as the tide ebbed, began to push her round to the north side of the pier, and here her luck was in: the concrete had been broken in some ancient collision, and the rusting metal bones were exposed. She managed to grab the cold iron, and for some minutes she could do no more than hang on. But she couldn’t stay where she was: the river was chilling her, and even over the churning and sucking of the waters she could hear the gunfight continuing overhead. If anyone looked down, she’d be seen. Summoning up what little strength she had, she hauled herself out and onto the surface of the pier where she crouched, shivering, under the shadow of the bridge.


  She was lying on her side. The fog had all but lifted. There was still a haze in the air, but full day had come and she could see the banks clearly, the buildings standing like a row of owls in the south. She was frozen. What had happened? She remembered shivering, her soaking knees drawn up to her chin. She remembered thinking that the shots were sounding more distant. Then, she supposed, she’d passed out.

  The base of the pier was flat-topped. Gingerly, she inched her way around it until she reached the downstream side, where the sun was beginning to light the river. Her head still ached, and her teeth felt as if they’d been driven back into her gums. It hurt to swallow. But she knew she had to keep moving – after Shavila’s Repsegs had finished with Amy and her friends, they’d be back.

  Looking up, Clara saw that the arches of the bridge were made of girders, with spaces between the struts where she might put her feet. If she climbed up there, maybe she could work her way back to the bank. Gritting her teeth, she hauled herself up the pier, her hands grasping the broken remains of a statue that had once stood in a niche. Her bitten finger throbbed. She halted for a moment before venturing out across the single span that separated her from the bank, grasping the vertical struts and gingerly moving her feet from one gap to the next. She was careful, but more than once her feet slipped on the damp ironwork. When she reached the middle of the arch, she could feel and hear the cabs and carts trundling a foot above her head as the morning rush-hour got under way. She looked down. The river had fallen with the tide, so there was a drop of twenty feet to the water. To her right, the tide had left something that looked like a corpse perched on the mud bank. With a shudder Clara forced herself to keep moving, but her limbs were shaking with the effort. She couldn’t hang on any longer, and when she got as far as the bank she gave in, and let herself fall. She sank a long way into the mud, and at first she thought it would suck her down, but gradually she managed to wade herself clear, every inch of her black and slimed. She was close to the corpse, and recognised it as one of the Undergrounders who’d brought the guns. She threw up.